


On the Merits of Colorful Cereal

by camphollstein



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Slice of Life, froot loops are amazing fight me, sorry for the cursing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-28 00:17:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5070502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/camphollstein/pseuds/camphollstein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daisy has a habit of stopping by the neighborhood 7-Eleven to satisfy her stupid amount of daily sugar intake. But, well, after a while, she starts coming for her British fix, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Merits of Colorful Cereal

**Author's Note:**

> I've never written this pairing before. I'm sorry if it's OOC or something. Please tell me if you see anything I could improve.

Something falls on the other side of the 7-Eleven, and Daisy almost drops her cereal in response. A string of garbled cursing and a shushing voice follow the racket, then loud stomping to the cashier signals the culprit's leaving.

She pokes her head out the aisle; a guy stands by the cashier, his companion nowhere to be seen. Shrugging, she turns back, to find herself face to face to someone.

“Oh, sorry,” she says, voice distinctively British. “Where did you find those?”

“Uhhh,” is Daisy's intelligent reply. “By the milk?”

The girl thanks her and moves away; Daisy finally breathes. She's pretty- so pretty that she's short-circuited Daisy's brain so well that only the noise of her Froot Loops hitting the ground wakes her up. Red-faced, she picks it up and disappears by the vegetables, only re-emerging at the sound of the door closing.

Trip smirks and waggles his eyebrows from the counter. “Smooth.”

“Fuck off.”

 

This is the last time she's letting Bobbi convince her to pick up drinks. She's the tiniest of them, and yet she's the one having to carry half-a-dozen six-packs across the short – but seemingly endless – parking lot to her truck. Mack could've done this a thousand times faster- she bets he could lift both the beers and Daisy in one hand.

She can barely see over the top of the containers, which is probably why she trips. Instead of falling to the floor and having her gorgeous face scarred by broken glass and asphalt, Daisy bumps onto something – or someone, judging by the 'oops' – and knocks her head on a Budweiser.

“Sorry!” Daisy says. “Oh my God, you just saved my life.”

“Do you need any help?”

It's the gorgeous British girl again. She entertains the idea of dropping the bottles and running for her life, but all this cost upwards of twenty bucks and IT does not pay enough for that.

“I'd love some,” she says instead. “Please?”

British picks up the top two packs and smiles at her. “Where's your car?”

Daisy points to her truck. “I'm sorry, again.”

“It's quite alright,” British tells her, with another blinding smile. “Better than you falling.”

“I agree.”

British helps her put everything on the passenger seat; Daisy can't not look at her. It should be hilarious that someone wears a vest and tie in the middle of a university neighborhood in a Friday night, but this girl pulls it off perfectly. It's like she's out of a geek's daydream or something.

“Thank you so much,” Daisy says, grinning. “You're an angel.”

British blushes – blushes! - at this, tucking her short hair behind her ear. “Not a problem. Have a good night.”

“You too!”

By the time she reaches Hunter's place, Daisy has regretted the little wave she gave at leaving about twenty times.

 

The world hates her.

There is no other explanation as to why British shows up on the day Daisy is sick and awful-looking. She's been at the 7-Eleven five times this week, all looking great and nice and joyful, but when she finally comes down with the seasonal cold, British decides to show her beautiful face at the convenience store.

Daisy has half a mind to hide behind Trip, but the girl spots her at entering, gracing Daisy with that glittering smile. Hard to be miserable with that. Even though any ideas of wooing British off her feet are destroyed by Daisy's stuffy nose and stained cargo pants.

Ducking her head, Daisy picks up the disgusting tea packet, hoping to sink to the floor.

“You don't look like a tea person.”

She looks up; British has a curious expression, holding a giant box of lavender tea. Figures.

“I'm really not,” she says. “But it's good for my throat.”

“Are you ill?”

Either Daisy looks like shit everyday, or British hasn't noticed her face at all. Both sound like a bad prospect.

“Yeah.” She croaks.

“I did think you looked different.”

Alright. There is hope.

“Is that a subtle way of saying I look terrible?”

British looks somewhere between terrified and embarrassed. “No! You don't look terrible – quite the opposite, really – it's just that you look like you didn't get much sleep. But you still look lovely, I think- well, in my eyes, at least. Please make me stop talking.”

A giggle escapes Daisy's lips. She smothers it quickly, though. “Thanks, I think.”

A blush suffusing her face, British ducks her head. Daisy notices the lanyard hanging around her neck- it reads 'SHIELD Labs' in bright yellow.

“You're one of the geniuses, huh?” she asks. British takes a while to understand.

“Oh- well, yes. I could be considered one.”

“You could or you are?”

“I am.”

“How many PhDs do you have? Like fifty? My firm does your security- you guys are like, crazy smart.”

She's developing a fondness for pink cheeks.

“I have two PhDs.”

“Oh. Wow. I was joking.”

“Oh.”

“You do what, there?”

“I'm a biochemist. Right now, I'm working on developing a tranquilizing agent that could be used in weaponry. It's still at the early stages though- we just now got clearance for that.”

Daisy blinks. “Sounds way difficult.”

“Daisy!” yells Trip from the door. “I'm gonna leave without you and your damn tea!”

“Oops,” she smiles sheepishly. “Time to go. Nice talking to ya, British.”

 

It's two months until Daisy shows up again. She's been crazy busy, May shipping her off to a conference in Berlin – where she had to talk and pretend like she's happy to be there – and having to rebuild SHIELD's security programs. It's ridiculous, because it was some bureaucrat who decided that their system was outdated; Daisy herself programmed it so that it could be used without fail for more than two years, but apparently a paper-pusher didn't agree.

She's not bitter at all, truly. She doesn't even want to whack him with the stack of paperwork she's been filling out or anything.

Grumbling, Daisy picks at her nails while evaluating her junk food options. Stuffing herself with Snickers is always fun, but she keeps having night-long sugar rushes that, though great for her hacking portfolio, leave her exhausted for days. Also, hacking has proven to give her more problems than the other; maybe stopping while she's winning is for the best.

Filling her basket with instant coffee and slightly less candy, Daisy hums as she goes to the cashier. She pauses, however, when a familiar voice rings by the soda section. Walking closer, Daisy stifles a laugh at British's scowl.

“What did Dr. Pepper do to you? Steal your thesis?”

British startles a little. “Oh, hello.”

“Why the anger?”

She sighs, shrugging a little. It's cute. “Bad day.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

“I wouldn't want to impose-”

“C'mon, I'm offering. Besides, I really shouldn't eat all this chocolate by myself.”

She pays for her things and offers to buy British something- the girl shakes her head vehemently, holding her basket tightly to her chest. They move to the bench outside 7-Eleven; the air is crisp, but nothing Daisy isn't used to.

“What happened at Mensa labs, then?”

British snorts. “What didn't happen? One of my interns lost a vial of very expensive material, and another one managed to ruin two samples of paralyzing venom that I'll have to ask Coulson for again- all because they were sexting each other during hours-”

“I vote you fire them,” Daisy announces, offering British a bar of chocolate. She accepts, opening it with a pout. “Fire them all.”

“That'd be mean.” She says, even though she seems partial to the idea.

“They fucked up your day, though.”

British rubs at her face; her bun loosens, some hair finding its way down and framing her face. This girl really is stupidly attractive, and absurdly intelligent. At some point, she starts trying to explain her research to Daisy, using six-syllable words that just don't make sense at all.

“Are you making these words up?” Daisy asks.

British grows indignant. “No!”

“What the hell is a parotid secretary-”

“Salivary!”

“-Whatever gland?”

“It's a gland on your mouth.”

“My mouth?!”

“Yes.”

“Well, what does it do?”

“Make saliva, obviously.”

“Why the fancy words though? Why not 'saliva gland'? You biologists sure love your big words, don't ya?”

British's phone rings. “That's my roommate,” she explains, smiling. “I have to go. Thank you, for listening, Daisy.”

Daisy gets up and grins down at her. “You know my name, now. Not fair. You gotta tell me yours, to make it even.”

“I'm Jemma. Jemma Simmons.” British tells her, offering a hand. Daisy shakes it confidently.

“Daisy Johnson. Do fire those interns. For me.”

Jemma laughs out loud; a bright, tinkling sound. “I'll think about it. Good night.”

“'Night.”

 

It's not even a week later when Daisy shows up there again. With the significant change being the level of alcohol in her system.

If you ask her, she's not drunk. If you ask Hunter, however, who is tasked with helping her pick up the food, he'll say she is. He'll slur that she is, that is. Point being, they're both wasted. Trip is trying to keep up, but soon their quick conversation and Daisy's incorporation of Hunter's slang and accent grow to be too much for him, and he walks off to sulk by the magazines.

They grab armfuls of chips and Hunter gets a gigantic tub of Red Vines; when the doorbell rings, they're just trying to figure out how to fit it onto a plastic bag. The cashier judges them- even though he's wearing a damn yellow polo.

“Daisy!”

Ah, British. Jemma, she means. She looks prim and proper as usual- not a pin out of place.

“Hey, Jems,” she says, gleeful. “Hello. Good day?”

Jemma covers a giggle with her hand and Daisy is proud of herself. “Not as good as yours, I'm assuming.”

“Who's the girl?” asks Hunter, in a voice he thinks is low. It's really not.

“I'm Simmons,” Jemma supplies. “You are?”

“Dead if we take too long,” he responds. “Bobbi'll kill me. When doesn't she want to kill me, honestly-”

“Take the chips,” Daisy orders him. “I'll take the vines and pay.”

He does so with little fuss, Trip trailing behind him. Daisy turns a cheeky grin at Jemma.

“You look great, Jemma.”

“Well, um- thank you, Daisy.”

“But you always look brilliant,” Daisy supplies, because beauty such as hers should be talked about, right? And if she's gonna tell her, it'll be when she's drunk. “Since I saw you first. Always so pretty.”

“Let's get you to the car, shall we?”

“Are we blushing, Miss Simmons? Or should I say Doctor Simmons?” Daisy continues to ramble as they leave, Jemma's hand solid on the small of her back. “You know it's wild, right, that you're a doctor at your age? Pretty neat. You're so smart, Jems, honestly. And cool. And nice. And gorgeous.”

“I'll take over from here,” says Bobbi, opening her back door. Trip is already squished inside, between their forgotten coats and Daisy's backpack. “Thanks.”

Jemma nods- she's shy, Daisy notices. The self-conscious look does not agree with Daisy, who then pokes Jemma on the cheek.

“No frown. Smile, Jems.”

She's full-on blushing, now. Daisy feels accomplished. With a quick, smacking kiss to Jemma's cheek, she says bye and enters the car.

 

Rule of thumb: if you're scared of something, pretend it doesn't exist.

It doesn't really work, but Daisy figures it's easier than to actually deal with it. And, right now, pretending she wasn't the biggest idiot in the planet that night is much more appealing than actually going up and talking to her crush. Like an adult or something.

Jemma has on a soft blue sweater, dress shirt poking out the sleeves and neck, and tight black pants. Her hand is to her mouth, fingers drumming against lips as she looks over cereal. Daisy's stomach does flips, especially when the sun comes out and lights up the side of her face like a goddamn painting.

Sadly, Daisy's escape plan is foiled by a squeak of her sneakers; Jemma looks up with a curious smile.

“Hi.” Daisy says, lamely.

“Hey.”

Jemma twirls a lock of her hair between her fingers; Daisy bites her lower lip, searching for something to say that won't make her look like the world's biggest dork.

“You gonna get one of those gross, healthy cereals?”

Her focus turns back to the cereal boxes. Daisy takes the opportunity and stands closer to Jemma, close enough for the crackling fan to turn her smell her direction. Something like cleaning products and lavender. And the sun, which is a very silly thing for Daisy to think about, but there it is.

“I was thinking of getting Froot Loops, actually.”

Daisy drops her jaw for effect. “I am gobsmacked.”

“They do look too sugary, though, I'll admit.”

“No. They're great. Man's best invention. Forget the wheel. This is the stuff.”

“Fire?”

“No.”

“TV?”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Internet?”

Daisy has to stop and ponder about that one. “That's hard. Still Froot Loops.”

“Seriously?”

“Six colors!”

Jemma grins- a exhilarating thing, a smile that sets Daisy's stomach on a rampage. It's always so hard to think around her. Before she can say anything, though, a guy rounds around the corner- he glares at her, suspicious, and comes to stand behind Jemma.

“Simmons,” he says. “Who's this?”

“Oh- this is Daisy. Daisy, this is my best friend, Fitz.”

Running sounds great, but Daisy plants her feet on the ground and shakes Fitz's hand. There's a challenge in his eyes, somewhere, but she likes Jemma too much and, for god's sake, can't the world let her ask a pretty girl out for once?

“We should go,” Jemma says, successfully plunging her into moping-mode. “But, um-” Daisy brightens up, “It's nice to see you, Daisy. Really.”

“You too.”

Then, the best thing happens- Jemma leans close and gives her a soft kiss on the cheek. “Bye, Daisy.”

She walks on Cloud Nine for the rest of the week.

 

Every winter, for the past five years, Daisy comes in to that 7-Eleven. She nods at the same elderly man who mans the counter every holiday, and buys instant coffee he lets her make and drink by the small, fake Christmas tree. Then they sit in silence until it's Christmas day, when he has to close and she has to return home.

This year, however, a surprise comes by way of a genius in a bunny beanie, who holds a bunch of candy. The man at the counter smiles at Daisy, nodding to her; she's become that obvious.

“Hey, Jemma,” she says, softly. Jemma perks up. “Bit late for Christmas shopping.”

“I'm not really shopping,” Jemma tells her, shrugging. “Hoarding.”

“Preparing for hibernation?”

“It's just,” Jemma seems troubled. Daisy reaches out and touches her hand where it lays upon the shelf, and waits. “I forgot I'd be spending Christmas alone, this year.”

“What happened?”

“I moved. My family is back at England. It's just me and Fitz- but he's going to his mate's party, enough begrudgingly, and I wanted- I don't know. Comfort food.”

Daisy squeezes her hand and makes to let go, but Jemma catches it again, holding it loosely by two digits. She's slightly taller than Jemma, Daisy realizes. She could wrap her up on a hug with ease.

“Well, then what are we waiting for?” She gets Jemma's basket and takes to the counter; the man rings them up with a small glint in his eyes. “Let's eat candy and complain, yes?”

Her heart is so light that Daisy doesn't think twice about paying for Jemma's things, even as the woman pleads with her. When the things are in bags, Daisy turns to her and says:

“I had to get you a present, Jemma! Tradition.”

“But I didn't get you anything.”

“You're here. Best present I've gotten in years.”

It's easier to say things under the dim lights of the parking lot, snow crushing under their feet and her heartbeat loud in her ears. Daisy lets the words onto the world, flippantly but earnest, even if to just admit it aloud.

But still, Daisy has to turn her head- sometimes Jemma's presence just catches up to her, tight on her chest. “Where do you wanna go?”

Jemma's voice is quieter, but warm. “Where do you live?”

Daisy's heart skips a beat, but she recovers quickly. “Like, two blocks away. Want to go?”

“Yeah,” Jemma tucks her hair behind her ear. “I kind of walked here, so...”

“I can drop you off later, if you want,” Daisy offers. “Promise.”

Jemma talks so much and so quickly that Daisy has a hard time keeping up; at some point she starts trying to explain Plank's – Planck's? - constant, and it's cute to see her light up. Daisy doesn't understand 70% of what she's saying, though.

Thankfully, they get to her apartment building soon enough. She opens the swing door, smiling, while holding all their bags. Her flat is tiny, but warm- she chose it for the security cameras and the heaters, back when Daisy thought the winter was harsher than it really was. Maybe she's just turned into a creature of the cold- a tiny Yeti. Jury's still out.

Leaving the food on her coffee table, Daisy turns the lights on; Jemma stands on her doorway, one foot in.

“Come in, Simmons. Are you a vampire? Do you need permission?”

“It's always nice to ask for it.” Jemma says, an eyebrow raised. It sounds like she's going to scold her, but then Jemma goes over to Daisy's – admittedly barren – bookshelf. 

“Why did you move here?” Daisy asks, opening a beer. Jemma accepts the one she offers, sitting down on her couch.

“Fitz and I got a job offer at SHIELD, a year ago. I was itching to leave my job, then, and Fitz'd been struggling to find a place that challenged him. When Dr. Coulson sent us an email- well, we couldn't get here fast enough.”

“Do you like it?”

“Yes- it's a brilliant place, and Coulson is so accommodating. He is genuinely interested in what we're doing and tries to help – even when he's out of his field – and to make it easier.”

“Good boss. I'm glad.”

Daisy had turned on her TV; a slow-burn romcom plays on the background, but she's far more entertained by Jemma. Even when the girl falls silent, chewing on gummy bears, Daisy can't keep her eyes off of her.

“Is he your boyfriend?” she asks suddenly. “I didn't get that vibe, but, y'know.”

The expression of disbelief that crosses Jemma's face is too funny; Daisy doubles over laughing, with Jemma's gasp over her. “No!”

“You sound horrified- he seemed nice. A bit frowny and sulky, but nice.”

“We're not like that,” Jemma tries to explain, cheeks red. “We're best friends.”

Daisy winks over her beer. “Good to know.”

Of course that, underneath that flirting, Daisy's heart is beating out of her chest. Part of her thinks Jemma isn't into her at all; that she's imagining any lingering glances or flirting words. A few years back, she loved the chase and the uncertainty, but now she's getting real tired real soon.

The show on TV has captured Jemma's attention, sadly. There's a guy with a weird pen and a blue police box; Jemma repeats his lines, while Daisy frowns at the screen. “Is this that Doctor Who thing?”

Scandalized, Jemma turns to her with wide eyes. “You've never watched Doctor Who?”

“No?” she says, confused. “Should I have?”

“It's a great show.”

She's not very fond of it right now, not when beautiful Jemma Simmons would rather watch it then to interact with Daisy. She tries everything; shaking her hair out, putting her arm on the back of the couch, even tugging on Jemma's hair once. Nothing works.

 

It's a week after New Year's Eve when Daisy sees Jemma again. They've exchanged numbers and texted a bit, Daisy sending lots of memes and a shot of Hunter asleep on her floor after a bender. She's learned that Jemma is a bit of a neat freak – because that wasn't obvious by her fresh-pressed clothes and stain stick on her purse – and that she's not a great cook, shown by the sorry excuse for a pancake on her Snapchat.

They're somewhere between a friendship and dating, but neither of them has said anything. Daisy has almost stopped by Jemma's apartment – that she'd dropped her off at during Christmas and realized that her new friend is loaded – with flowers several times, even going as far as buying them once and then tossing them at the trash when someone came out the doors. Simmons has managed to get her so whipped in so little time, and Daisy feels like a schoolgirl with a crush every time they talk.

She hates not being able to see her every day. Daisy wants to- wants to wake up next to Jemma, wants to try – and fail – to make breakfast, wants to watch that weird show with her, cuddled up on a couch. Wants to hug her from behind, wants to tuck that stubborn strand of hair behind her ear, wants to cup her chin and plant little kisses over the freckles that dust her face. It's such an overwhelming amount of want that sometimes Daisy is left reeling, daydreaming at her cubicle, stealing glances at Jemma's icon on her phone.

Jemma doesn't seem to know Daisy is there; she's texting, fingers flying on her screen, face illuminated by the phone. Sneaking up behind her, Daisy notices she's texting her, and covers her eyes with her hands.

“Guess.” She says, in her best gruff voice. Jemma giggles nervously.

“Normal people just say hello, you know,” she tells her slyly. Daisy lets her go, grinning.

“I could've done worse things. Sometimes I greet Hunter by jumping on his back. It's fun because he falls- I tried it on Mack, but the stood there like I was a backpack. Bobbi too. I think it's part of their Jedi ninja training.”

“Having tiny IT girls jump them?”

Daisy pouts at the teasing grin that accompanies the words. “It's an hypothesis. Another one is that there is a secret facility in China wherein they got their powers and now they're sworn to eternal service to an ancient god.”

Jemma stares. “Should I be afraid?”

“Absolutely. Super soldiers are serious business.”

It's hard to pretend she's not fun to hang out with; Daisy has to bury her face in her own giant sweater to hide a smile and hot cheeks. Jemma gives her another brilliant smile and moves on to get her Froot Loops.

Wait a minute. Daisy's eyes narrow.

Taking two steps forwards, Daisy plucks the cardboard box from Jemma's fingers.

“Are my eyes deceiving me?”

Jemma rolls her eyes. “Daisy...”

“Is Miss Raisin Bran converting? Have you accepted true happiness by the hand of Toucan Sam?”

“Shut up.”

“Are you aware of how miraculous this is?”

“Daisy.”

Daisy laughs and gives it back. “Don't pout. I was just kidding.”

“It's not for me, if you must know.”

“Oh?”

“It's for you.”

“Why?”

“You're always buying me things- let me get you at least one cereal, once.”

“You don't have to.”

“I want to.”

“Alright.”

“It's also an excuse for you to come over sometime,” Jemma says, biting her lip. Her eyes follow the movement, her throat dry. “You know?”

A smirk slowly spreads through Daisy's face. Jemma has her face scrunched, like she's not proud of the way she worded it. She takes the Froot Loops from Jemma again, deliberately holding contact between their hands, and puts it back on the shelf. Jemma watches her under her eyelashes, worrying her lower lip between her teeth.

“You don't need an excuse, Simmons.”

Daisy holds her face in her hands, keeping eye contact until Jemma's flutter closed, until she feels her breath on her lips. Then she gently kisses her, thumbs at her cheekbones, Jemma's hair brushing her knuckles.

They stay there, locked into an innocent kiss, with Jemma's hands holding onto Daisy's sweater, until a loud noise from Trip ringing up a costumer brings them back to Earth. Still, Daisy can't let go of her; she holds Jemma by the waist, keeping her lips on her cheek. From there, she can feel Jemma smile- it's probably the one that starts in her eyes and diffuses through her face, softening features. It's her favorite.

“Is this okay?” she whispers.

Jemma's smile widens. “Yes.”


End file.
